(no subject)
So, I spruced up my journal a little bit and then heartlessly razed all my more meaningful and hilarious (to me anyway) user-icons in favor of candy-colored Marie Antoinette avatars. Apparently, the only way to make me forget gross historical inaccuracies is to make everything so ludicrously pretty and frilly and colorful that I am drugged and numb - "French Revolution? Wut-wut?"
I've gotten a new job, by the way, so some of you can stop sending me links to fast-food restaurants that're hiring. I say 'new', I really mean, 'I waited a month to tell you guys because I know you'd laugh at how I'm moving up in the world and no, it's not the sex trade'. I'm - wait for it...
A TELEMARKETER.
Only not really because I'm technically called an 'information gatherer' or some such nice sounding name, but in reality, it adds up to me calling people up and them telling me I ought to be ashamed of what I do. Honestly, and strippers think they have it tough. Not that it's not a decent job though - I get to make my own hours, the pay's alright and I don't have to move beyond punching out numbers on a phone and twitching uncontrollably as some old lady makes me repeat my introduction about five times before telling me that back in the OLD days, telemarketers had the decency not to call on SUNDAYS.
I get to go home this December 6th too - proper food, here I come! Living as I do, gloriously lonesome and very, very cheap, I only buy the very dregs of the sales bin at Superstore. I wince at the sight of food in the dustbin, it is only society's rigorous conditioning that prevents me from pulling out that perfectly serviceable pancake nestling in between those cardboard boxes. Several friends, bless their buttons and boots and various winter paraphenalia, have offered to take it out to dinner and I intend to hold them to it and occasionally grind their noses INTO it.
Naturally, all this happiness comes at a price and you can't get to heaven without facing Apollyon (was it Apollyon in Paradise Lost that was the place with lions? I forget) - I've an essay and an exam to get through, as well as general packing and making sure I don't lose my plane ticket. Something that is all too likely to happen, unfortunately.
Veering away briefly from frivolity - though normal programming will resume in just a minute - I'm actually a little scared of going home and finding that my place has closed up. I certainly don't expect things to stay the same, and I've been good about keeping contact but... things have happened that I haven't had the chance to take part in - things have changed and I've had no part in changing them - I've changed, fanned out a little more, grown a little sadder and maybe a bit wiser and a lot foolisher. I can't imagine not fitting in with my family, but what if?
I miss you all, you non-updating bastards. I hope you all take care. And drop me a line so I can stalk send you Xmas cards.
I've gotten a new job, by the way, so some of you can stop sending me links to fast-food restaurants that're hiring. I say 'new', I really mean, 'I waited a month to tell you guys because I know you'd laugh at how I'm moving up in the world and no, it's not the sex trade'. I'm - wait for it...
A TELEMARKETER.
Only not really because I'm technically called an 'information gatherer' or some such nice sounding name, but in reality, it adds up to me calling people up and them telling me I ought to be ashamed of what I do. Honestly, and strippers think they have it tough. Not that it's not a decent job though - I get to make my own hours, the pay's alright and I don't have to move beyond punching out numbers on a phone and twitching uncontrollably as some old lady makes me repeat my introduction about five times before telling me that back in the OLD days, telemarketers had the decency not to call on SUNDAYS.
I get to go home this December 6th too - proper food, here I come! Living as I do, gloriously lonesome and very, very cheap, I only buy the very dregs of the sales bin at Superstore. I wince at the sight of food in the dustbin, it is only society's rigorous conditioning that prevents me from pulling out that perfectly serviceable pancake nestling in between those cardboard boxes. Several friends, bless their buttons and boots and various winter paraphenalia, have offered to take it out to dinner and I intend to hold them to it and occasionally grind their noses INTO it.
Naturally, all this happiness comes at a price and you can't get to heaven without facing Apollyon (was it Apollyon in Paradise Lost that was the place with lions? I forget) - I've an essay and an exam to get through, as well as general packing and making sure I don't lose my plane ticket. Something that is all too likely to happen, unfortunately.
Veering away briefly from frivolity - though normal programming will resume in just a minute - I'm actually a little scared of going home and finding that my place has closed up. I certainly don't expect things to stay the same, and I've been good about keeping contact but... things have happened that I haven't had the chance to take part in - things have changed and I've had no part in changing them - I've changed, fanned out a little more, grown a little sadder and maybe a bit wiser and a lot foolisher. I can't imagine not fitting in with my family, but what if?
I miss you all, you non-updating bastards. I hope you all take care. And drop me a line so I can stalk send you Xmas cards.